


By Way of Tevinter

by Sephirajo



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-16 15:25:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/863558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sephirajo/pseuds/Sephirajo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Orla Amell, Hero of Ferelden, had to put aside her feelings for Alistair and married him to Anora.  In desperation to get away, she accepted to accompany Sten back to Par Vollen to deliver his report on the Blight.  Joined by Zevran and her loyal mabari, Dane, Orla sets out to make a trip that will take her far away from her troubles only to find that trouble often finds you regardless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Port to a Storm

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you all enjoy the first fan fic I've written in couple of years. Working as an epilogue to Origins and set before the events of Awakening this story follows my mage warden, Orla. I hope you all will enjoy taking this journey with me.
> 
> ~Sephira jo

**Personae Dramatis**   
_Orla Amell - Mage, Grey Warden and Hero of Ferelden_  
Zevran - Ex-member of the Antivan Crows, acts as body guard to Orla  
Sten - Qunari, member of the beresaad, came to Ferelden to answer the question of the blight.  
Dane - Purebred Mabari war hound, adopted by Orla after the battle of Ostagar  
Wynne - Enchanter of the Ferelden Circle who considers herself a mentor to Orla. 

* * *

Orla had left the celebration early. If you slayed an Archdemon, people didn’t question you if you said you were tired. She was, though not in the way everyone clearly thought. Her best friend had left her for locations unknown and Alistair had… She didn’t want to think about it. At least the room provided by Arl Eamon was comfortable. One of the servants had brought up water in the bath. It was lukewarm, but that was easily fixed.

Orla put her hands in the water and heated it, leaving it steaming. It would have plenty of time to cool off while she started to remove the warden issued robes. It had taken a bit to get used to wearing it again before the final battle. While they were in hiding they wore what they could, and mages didn’t wear armor, even if it was lighter. The clasps on the gloves were easy enough to undo, and she tossed that on to the bed, the twin griffins freshly shined and polished.

She stared at them for a moment as they glinted in the candle light. Orla didn’t feel worthy of all the accolades she had been given. _Hero of Ferelden,_ she thought, _if this is what it takes to be a hero, then I don’t want it._ The door opened with a low woof, Dane the mabari was announcing his presence. He padded over and started sniffing at the gloves as they sat on the bed. He looked up at Orla and wagged his tail, licking her hand.

“Oh, look who else left the party,” Orla said, scratching the dog’s head. He took it as an invention to jump up on her. It was hard to keep her balance with over a hundred pounds of war dog leaning heavily on her and licking her face. “Oy, boy,” she muttered, “down. You didn’t have to come check on me. I’m sure there’s still plenty of mutton at the feast.”

“He isn’t the only one come to check up on you,” Wynne said, standing in the door. Orla wasn’t really too shocked to see the Senior Enchanter there and didn’t look up from Dane.

“You didn’t have to,” Orla said, attempting to push the large dog off. He eventually did get the message and jumped on to her bed, the feather mattress sinking considerably under his weight as Dane started happily chewing his left leg.

“No, perhaps not. But I wanted to, and you should humor this old woman,” Wynne said, the tone making the last bit a jest. Orla didn’t make eye contact, however. At the moment she was glad that it wasn’t Irving. Orla idly pet Dane, who huffed once, happily, but continued to eat his foot.

“Alright,” Orla said, “You _are_ the Senior Enchanter,” she said a bit wry, “I can’t stop you from giving your advice. You’ve always been very free with it.”

“Too free or not free enough?” Wynne returned, stepping in and pushing the heavy door shut, “Perhaps you think a bit of both right now,” the older woman stood there for a moment, and Orla could feel Wynne’s eyes on her, “I just thought I’d check up on you and tell you I think you did the right thing.”

Orla looked up then, her blue eyes red rimmed, “Did I?” she returned, “It doesn’t feel that way. I should…” she trailed off. _I should be dead._ A warden was supposed to die, and she could see how old stories would talk about lovers who committed suicide if this was the pain she had to look forward to.

_There is no man out there who is worth your life, Orla. Especially not **Alistair** ,_ Morrigan had said.

“You should what?” Wynne said, coming over and sitting down next to her, “I know it hurts now, but the pain will pass in time.”

“Will it?” Orla asked, turning her tear stained eyes on Wynne, “I’m sorry, Senior Enchanter, I can’t see how it will or how you _would even know,_ ” she snapped.

“Oh yes, no mage has ever fallen in love and had to leave that love behind before,” Wynne returned in her light tone, but there was steel behind it, “That would just be silly, wouldn’t it?”

“I… I’m sorry, Wynne,” Orla stammered.

“Oh, it’s okay. You’ll have to try a lot harder than that to make me upset,” Wynne returned, “Besides, it’s understandable. Right now I’m sure you feel like nothing could hurt more than this, but there are worse things,” she said, sounding a bit distant before turning her clear gaze on Orla, “He is alive and so are you. Because of you two, Ferelden is united and the Blight pushed back. That doesn’t at all diminish the time you had together. I did tell you, duty may separate you.”

“Who was… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t ask,” Orla said, wiping her eyes.

Wynne placed a hand on her shoulder, “Well, I’ve licked a few lamp posts in my time,” Wynne said, her tone jesting. Orla turned bright red. So that conversation had been overheard. By just about everyone. Perfect. “But I’ve only really loved one. He was quite the lamp post,” Wynne said sagely.

“What was he like?” Orla asked.

“Oh, quite handsome for a lamp post. And kind, he liked to listen. And a Templar,” Wynne said the last like it was nothing, but Orla was shocked. Noticing Orla’s confused stare, Wynne continued, “Not all Templars are focused on killing mages,” she pointed out, “Though in retrospect it wasn’t my wisest relationship. Love can protect you from a great many things, but it isn’t a shield against reality.”

“What happened?” Orla asked, curious and concerned. While it was obvious they hadn’t killed Wynne or made her Tranquil for it, the Templars weren’t known for being forgiving. It was part of the reason why despite liking Cullen in return, she had done nothing to return the obvious affection.

“Well they found out when I was with child. It turns out that while you can hide it for quite some time by dressing correctly it’s pretty hard to keep a secret in a tower full of people who often have nothing to do but gossip,” Wynne said ruefully, “He was reassigned and my son taken. I never was able to say good bye to either of them,” her voice was distant for a moment giving Orla the impression the Senior Enchanter was spending a moment in the past. In a happier time, perhaps, “So I do know a bit of what I’m talking about, young lady.”

“I must have sounded like a spoiled brat,” Orla muttered, looking down at her hands.

“No, not at all,” Wynne said, gently guiding Orla’s head to rest on her shoulder. She could almost recall being comforted like this by her mother, long ago. It was sad that the two she could claim were most like parents were in no way related to her, “You are a strong young woman who just gave up what she cherished above all to ensure her homeland’s future. I think you’re allowed to be bitter about that, at least for now. Have faith, child, in the long run though these things will balance out.”

Orla swallowed once and nodded, “I can’t stay here though. I don’t want to see it,” Alistair and Anora. King and Queen of Ferelden. A perfect, painful compromise.

“Understandable, child. So, where are you off to next?” Wynne asked, still holding her. Orla couldn’t stop the tears that started down her face. Leaving was going to be just as painful as staying.

“With Sten, his ship leaves in three days,” and Zevran had also offered to travel with her, she realized. A mage, a Qunari, an elf and a dog. And it still wasn’t half as strange as her collection of comrades had been this past year and a half. “If I write a letter for… the king… will you…?” she couldn’t finish.

“Of course, Orla. Of course,” Wynne said, hugging her as she finally gave way to exhausted tears, “Anything you need.”

***

_Alistair,_

_I know the Queen will read this letter, so for her sake I will not say everything I want to say. Everything I wish I could. However, I don’t think I need to say it. You know what I would say, what I want to say. That being said, I wish you and the Queen all the best and an heir before the year is out._

_Arl Eamon asked for me to stay on as a magical adviser to the Crown, but you know I can not. Both because of my status as a Warden and because of our history. Perhaps his goal was to make Queen Anora uncomfortable, I don’t know. I will not give him the satisfaction either way._

_Allow me to suggest someone to serve in my stead._

_I know Wynne will not be staying on, she plans on traveling with Shale to find a way to reverse the Golem’s condition. However Petra, who told us about Wynne’s accident during Uldred’s bloodbath at the tower, is an excellent choice. I studied with her a great deal, she is smart, talented and has a very level head on her shoulders. She will advise the Crown sagely in all magical matters. You could not ask for a better one. And it should be of great comfort to your Queen to know she prefers to spend her evenings with women. Not that I think you’ll fall for her, but given her late husband’s reputation I would rather not ruffle feathers._

_If you wish to know more about her qualifications, Wynne will be able to tell you more of Petra. Trust me though when I say you could not ask for a better adviser._

_That being said, when you are reading this I will be gone. A ship is leaving, I won’t tell you its name, for the North. Sten, Zevran, Dane and I will be on it. Sten is returning to Par Vollen, and we are going with. It may be suicide, but at least it will be a creative suicide. Though I doubt it will come to that. I will return to Ferelden soon, My King. Until then, I wish you all the best._

_May Andraste Guide and Keep You,  
Orla Amell, Enchanter of The Lake Calenhad Circle, Warden of the Grey_

* * *

The pier was cold, with salty air blowing in her face. The blue and gray Warden robes and the staff afforded her space among a busy dock. There was also Dane, half her size and all muscle. Zevran nearby wearing a short sword openly and a few hundred daggers hidden amongst his armor also did a lot to discourage any ideas.

“Do you see him?” Orla asked, squinting her eyes and scanning the docks. An eight foot Qunari should not be hard to find. Even if he didn’t have the horns. Her nose wrinkled as it was hit by the smell of rotting fish. Zevran, on the other hand, must have felt right at home. Antiva City was a port, after all, and it would explain the deep breath he took along with the quirked grin on his face.

“You do not think it would be so hard to lose a giant, no?” Zevran noted, his tone chipper. It was a mood that right now, Orla did not share. It was the start of spring and the weather couldn’t decide if it wanted to be hot and humid or cold and humid and it left her somewhere between freezing and sweating.

“Well, if we can’t find him, I hope you’re very good at coming up with snap travel plans,” Orla returned dryly.

“Ah, the places I could take you and we would not even have to leave the bedroom,” Zevran said with an over stated sigh that made Orla roll her eyes.

“I’ll wait with baited breath,” she returned, in something close to a monotone.

“Perhaps they’ll have us bunk together!” Zevran’s tone with so bright he had to be joking. At least, Orla hoped he was joking. The answer on her tongue was cut short though as Dane started barking and dancing happily before rushing forward, knocking a few dock workers off their feet. Dane, apparently, thought he could tackle a Qunari.

Sten stood his ground, even as the paws messed the paint on his chest and placed a large hand on the dog’s head, “You seem to get lost too easily, _kadan_ ,” he said, his gaze on Orla.

“First dock I’ve ever been on with the intent to leave,” she returned with a shrug. Sten just nodded. Words were not something he indulged in. “Is the ship nearby?” she asked, walking over and placing a calming hand on the happy, barking dog. If she didn’t know better she could have sworn Dane was trying to tell Sten everything of the last couple days. Or maybe he was. Mabari were smart, after all.

“Yes,” Sten returned, nodding his head in the other direction. The meaning was clear. The ship was that way. Orla glanced back over the port and out into the city of Denerim. Parts of it were still smoking, but they could rebuild without her. “ _Kadan,_ ” Sten said, snapping her back to present.

“Sorry,” she said, shaking her head, “Let’s go,” she said firmly. _Before I change my mind,_ she added silently. 

“Excellent!” Zevran piped up, “So, which of us will be holding her hair as she vomits over the edge for the first few days?” his tone was entirely too chipper.

“What?” Orla started, shooting the elf a startled glance, “It’s not that bad, is it?”

Zevran didn’t say anything, falling into a bouncing step next to the giant Qunari and large dog, leaving Orla standing there for a moment, “It isn’t that bad, right?” she asked, trying to catch up.

It couldn’t _really_ be that bad.

* * *

Dear Maker, It was _worse._

Orla groaned, holding on to the edge of the boat, the taste of bile burning her tongue and throat. Next to her Zevran stood looking out over the sea, patting her back gently.

“I hate,” she wretched, “all of you.”

“Blame the ocean, _bella_. After all, you are the only one here able to cast spells, though I don’t recall seeing you make a man vomit so. Other reactions, however, yes,” he mused. Orla turned her head slightly to the side, her blue eyes narrowing at Zevran. All three of him. There were so many ways she could make the elf’s cocky grin catch on fire. Literally on fire.

Her stomach turned again but there was nothing left to expel into the sea, leading to a rather uncomfortable dry heave. Zevran took her by the shoulders with a strength you wouldn’t expect of someone so wiry, “Alright, _bella ragazza_ , it is time to get you off deck, I think. And then something in your stomach, no?”

“So it can come right back up again?” Orla returned, “Maker, no. I refuse.”

“Ah, Orla, I don’t think you could fight me off right now if you tried,” he said, practically carrying her bellow deck. For what they had paid for passage on this ship, Orla thought they were ripped off. One small room with three bedrolls for the three of them and a dog. Said dog was gnawing on a bone at Sten’s feet as the large Qunari cared for _Asala_ , his sword. Zevran sat her down next to the eternally shifting wall of the ship.

“I was not meant for the sea,” she managed as Dane padded over, woofed in a comforting way and licked her face a few times before laying down next to her.

“Obviously, _Kadan_ ,” Sten said, not even looking up.

“Or perhaps it is a sign that the water was not meant to consume such a beauty as yourself,” Zevran said smoothly, handing her a wooden stein, when she didn’t take it, he held it to her lips and tilted her head. Despite not wanting a drop of it she found herself drinking, only to find it bitter and burning her already tender throat. She started coughing.

“Is it rancid?” she gasped, pushing the cup away. Not that Orla had ever heard of water going rancid, but there was a first time for everything. Zevran held on to the heavy cup, his face more serious than usual. He shook his head at her question.

“They put beer in it,” Sten said matter-of-factly, “To ward away illness. Does no one in this land know how to boil water?”

“I am pretty sure that starting fires on ships on purpose is not something often done,” Zevran returned in response to Sten’s grumbling, “But he is correct, we would not want you getting sicker,” Zevran said with a nod, holding the cup back up to her lips. This time, Orla took it. She wasn’t going to be catered to like a child.

A small sip though and she was trying not to cough it all up, “Maybe they put it in to make you sick,” she groaned.

“You are drinking it a bit fast, _bella_ ,” Zevran pointed out, “Slowly,” he said, handing her a hard biscuit, “And if this stays in it’s correct place perhaps we can move you back on to cheese and the smoked meat, no?” he suggested as Orla took the bread.

Cheese, just the mention of it, brought to mind Alistair. Her face must’ve fallen because Zevran sighed slightly, “No cheese then. Though, truth be told, you are not missing much. These things do not store so well on ships.”

“You are doing no favors by coddling her, elf,” Sten said firmly, the grayish, red painted giant didn’t look up from his blade.

“Ah, my Qunari friend,” Zevran cooed while Orla coughed on some biscuit, “Orla’s emotions are in a delicate state. If you like I could teach you to recognize these signs. I imagine it would make you quite popular!”

“No,” Sten said tersely, “and we are not friends.”

“Truly? You call her, what is the word, _kadan?_ Surely I have grown on you too,” Zevran returned, his tone more teasing than hopeful as he steadied Orla while she slowly ate the hard bread.

“She has earned it; you have not,” Sten replied, turning the blade over and taking a whetstone to the other edge.

“Now you are just being hurtful,” Zevran said with a mock frown.

“You can both knock it off,” Orla said, holding the biscuit in one hand and the cup in the other. “Seeing cheese won’t depress me,” she pointed out, “I did what I had to do.” Even if she hadn’t wanted to. The sank back against the hard wood of the wall, watching every wave that the room seemed to make. “How long will this boat ride be?” she said around a turning in her stomach. Every wave or movement the ship made her insides seemed to lurch with them.

“Weeks,” Sten said simply.

“Do not worry, _bella,_ ” Zevran said, “The worst of it should pass soon. The first time is always the worst, they say. So true for a very many things.”

“Zevran?”

“ _Sí?_ ” 

“Did you just make the last three days of me retching into a _sex joke?_ ” Orla snapped, not amused.

“Oh no, Orla. Unless of course that is what you wanted it to be! After all, I live to serve,” he said happily.

“If only that service meant silence,” Sten interjected.

“I’d tell him to be quiet, but I think he’d explode,” Orla returned. She was more tired than hungry now, her eyes half closed. Zevran took the cup and the bread as she sank down the side of the wall into the matted, itchy bed roll. A few minutes of sleep, that was all she needed.

* * *

Orla dreamt she flew through the sky as a hawk, Morrigan cheering her on from the ground. The world and all it’s cares so far beneath her. She landed on the mast of the boat, her feathers ruffled in the wind. She could see for miles. Ozone made her feathers rise. She could barely take flight before it hit the mast of the ship, starting sails on fire. Clouds, like hands, reached out the grab her as the very fade changed.

“ _Kadan!_ ” Sten’s voice snapped her awake, the sudden sitting up turning her stomach, but at least this time she didn’t vomit. For a moment she stared at the Qunari blankly as thunder rumbled and shook the boat. It wasn’t a dream!

“The boat’s on fire!” Orla exclaimed, trying to make it to her feet. Sten’s response was a simple nod. “Sten, where’s Zevran and Dane?” she said, almost falling over as the ship lurched. Sten handed her her staff while helping to steady her.

“Above. I hope you have your strength, _kadan_ ,” Sten said simply, “You will need all of it.”

Orla nodded, though she felt light headed and dizzy which caused the boat to spin in ways not even related to it’s pitching back and forth. The sounds of battle were obvious as they poured down from the decks. There was also screaming and a feeling of… wrongness. She hoped whatever was going on she had the strength to fight it. Her energy, her _mana_ was all but tapped from the days of seasickness.

Running above deck was like running into a fiery nightmare. Lightning crashed down from the clouds circling above and the water twisted and churned beneath the ship. She felt the demon before she saw it, the boiling pit of rage was the source of the fire on the ship. Shades also came forth, as if from nowhere, but she could see the veil in tatters. She couldn’t help but to stare for a moment, not quiet believing the amount of energy that was being thrown around. Where had it come from?!

“Get the bloody mage up here!” she recognized the voice as the Captain’s as another sailor took her firmly by the arm, grasping to the point of causing pain and hauled her the rest of the way above deck. As bad as the first glance from below was, this was worse. Screams echoed out to sea with no where to go, always seeming to end up back on deck. The smell of burning flesh hit her hard. It said a lot about the last year that she was all too familiar with it.

The sailor who grabbed her all but threw her towards the captain who took her by the robes and shook her with one hand while pointing with the other, “You did this?” the question was also an accusation.

“No!” Orla snapped, trying to push out of the grip without resorting to frying him. Even this sick, electrocuting someone would have been easy. It didn’t come to that though as Sten took the Captain’s hand and squeezed it, quickly turning it a rich shade of purple. Orla took the moment to steady herself, looking out over the carnage, catching sight of Zevran plunging his short sword into a shade’s physical form, the ‘body’ leaving an inky film behind.

“How dumb would I have to be,” Orla snapped, leaning heavily on her staff, “to do this in the middle of the sea with no way off a boat? Are you daft? What would this,” she paused, turned and hit a shade full in the head with her staff, the weapon discharging electricity when it hit, “even gain me?!”

The captain pulled a dagger out as the chaos around them grew worse, “You’re an abomination, a maleficar! You’ve cursed my ship!”

“Have you ever seen an abomination?” Orla snapped backing away from the knife, her staff held in front of her chest, “I’m not one. And if I was, the angry Qunari with the four foot sword behind you would be the first to kill me,” she returned. And at that point, it would be a mercy. At that point she would not be truly alive.

“All I know, witch, is if I kill you this will e-” the Captain stopped mid sentence and looked down at his chest. The tip of a short sword was there, spreading a red stain down his chest like split wine. His expression was bewildered as it was pulled out, leaving him to slump down on the deck, his last breaths coming out in a spitting gurgle. 

“Zevran!” Orla snapped, half relieved, half angered, “They’re going to throw us overboard!”

The elf shrugged, “I do not think that matters right now, as in a few moments there will be no boat left. Besides, what type of bodyguard would I be if I let him kill you, _bella_ , hm?” Zevran said, and ducked, avoiding a club from a sailor who had seen it happen. Sten grabbed the sailor’s head from behind and crushed it like an egg in his hands, dropping the bloody body on to the deck.

“ _Parshaara_ ,” Sten snapped, “If we do not take care of this it will be the demons that kill us, not the sea or these bas.”

“Right,” Orla nodded, whistling for Dane. She saw the dog running towards her, covered in blood and ash. “Good boy,” she muttered as he stood behind her, balancing her without having to be ordered, “Get behind me,” she shouted to Zevran and Sten. Sick or not, she had to do this. Lightning crackled between the tips of her fingers and the apex of her staff, growing in intensity with each arc. She could feel it under her skin, raising her hair and crackling over the metal studs in the Grey Warden issued robes.

Orla extended her hand and the lightning arced outward jumping from form to form, making no distinctions between man and demon, as long as it was in front of her. But their captain _had_ just tried to kill her. She didn’t feel too sorry for them. She’d worry about how they’d deal with a boat full of angry sailors after the immediate threat of death passed. Though as it was there wouldn’t be very many sailors left to be angry.

When the crackling stopped, Orla fell to her knees, dizzy and drained. She looked up, while there were some people twitching and writhing on the floor, the bulk of the demons seemed gone. The storm above them continued to rage however, “It’s not over,” Orla muttered. Sure enough, shades came out of the wood of the boat.

“Where are they coming from?” Sten growled, his sword ready.

Orla shook her head, scanning the sea and finally pointed, tired. Learning to shift in to a hawk from Morrigan had it’s advantages. Even as dizzy as she was, she could sharpen her vision, “There, just outside the storm, a ship.”

“How could they be doing this from there?” Zevran asked, a knife in one hand a dagger in the other.

“Blood magic,” Orla said weakly, watching an Arcane Horror rise from the deck, it’s long spindly hands moving as unnatural sleep came down upon them and the storm cleared above them the ship in the distance closing in.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ship carrying Orla, Sten, Zevran and Dane was attacked by a Magister from Tevinter with an obsession with Orla Amell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGER WARNING: The last scene of this chapter is a rape scene involving the magister and one of his elfish slaves. To avoid this, stop reading after Edrea tells Orla her name.

**Personae Dramatis  
 _Orla Amell_** \- Grey Warden, Enchanter from the Ferelden circle.  
 **Zevran** \- Ex-Antivan Crow. Roguish Assassin with a penchant for not keeping his mouth shut.  
 **Sten** \- A Sten of the Beresaad, he came to Ferelden to answer the question ‘What is the Blight.’ Was returning to Par Vollen with Orla and Zevran.  
 **Dane** \- A pure bred Mabari that Orla saved at Ostagar. He has been her loyal hound since then.  
 **Sophina** \- Apprentice to Magister Barbatus.  
 **Magister** Fortunatus “Atus” Barbatus - Magister recognized by the Senate, holds various estates across the Tevinter Empire. Has a deep interest in Orla.  
 **Edrea** \- Elfin slave to the Barbatus household.

* * *

Sophina stood two steps behind her master, her sandals steeped in blood. She couldn’t complain too much about that when the sticky stuff dotted her dark skin and matted in her auburn hair where the tight curls touched her forehead. That bit was her own fault for wiping the sweat off her brow, forgetting how much blood spattered her forearms.

The elven page boy that had to give his blood for the spell work still gurgled on the ritual table as the storm above them faded with his life. “My pardon, Magister,” despite being his apprentice, he still required her to use formal titles, “but is this truly worth your time?” she asked as their vessel sped towards the devastated Ferelden ship.

“Ah, my dear,” _Why do those words always sound so condescending from him?_ She thought, “There are things I do not expect you to understand but do _not_ question me. Not on this,” Fortunatus finished firmly. Even though she stood behind him Sophina didn’t dare roll her eyes. If she didn’t know better she’d think the sea sun had gotten to him. As it was his already deep tan skin was a shade or two darker from the couple of weeks at sea. At first, she thought it was a fools’ errand. How could you hope to catch a ship that hadn’t left yet? Yet like most of his otherworldly knowledge, it was perfectly correct.

“You’ll want to take care of that,” he said as an aside. Sophina didn’t have to ask what ‘that’ was, she knew all too well. The Magister may not have taken the time to get to know his slaves, but she did. She was the one who had to make sure things ran smoothly, after all. Even though she understood the necessity of it, the death of the page boy just seemed so _excessive_. She would make an effort to pay the mother something for her son’s service when they made landfall back home.

“Of course, Magister,” Sophina said, picking up the small body and walking to the edge of the ship. She could feel the eyes of the slaves on her from below. She was sure they despised them for having done it in the first place or were glad it wasn’t them. Though, if they thought to question it at all, she didn’t know. In the fourteen years since her discovery and her family’s elevation to the Laetan caste she still wasn’t quite sure what went on in the minds of both Magisters and slaves.

 _Maybe it’s best not to know,_ Sophina thought as she pushed the page’s body off the edge and into the sea. Still, she couldn’t shake the foundation she had grown up on. Even without that, without the faith in the Maker, killing a boy to lay waste to a ship that did you no harm hardly seemed right at all.

The body taken care of Sophina walked back to her master, staying behind him. It was odd for what he was that he couldn’t stand the sight of blood. She’d have to clean up before she could face him or stand by his side. It was his secret shame, an Imperial Magister, a blood mage, who could not take the sight of blood. It meant the worst of the work fell to her.

“Wash up, my dear,” Fortunatus said, “I will be sending you aboard.”

 _Because you can’t stand to see the carnage that you ordered_ , she thought to herself, “Of course,” was her answer. With a slight bow he would not see, Sophina walked backwards three steps out of her master’s presence before turning to go below deck.

“And have them clean up the mess,” he called after her, “I don’t want to look at it.”

Sophina paused at the top of the steps, “Of course, Magister,” she said with a slight bow. She wondered if she could count herself lucky that her childhood as a butcher’s daughter prepared her for this work. She looked over at one of the elves with a slight nod up deck. He took a few of his fellows and some rags and a bucket of seawater and scurried by as she made her way to the tub near the galley.

“May I help you, Mistress?” one of the house slaves, the cup bearer oddly enough, asked as she held out a rag for her.

“I can attend myself,” Sophina said, taking the cloth and starting to scrub the blood out.

“Mistress… I know it’s not my place to ask, but…” The elf-girl trailed off.

“But what?” Sophina prompted, scrubbing hard to get the caked blood off her arms, even the smell of iron seemed to upset the Magister.

“Why…why did the master…” the cup-bearer’s meek voice trailed off.

Sophina shrugged in reply, “I don’t know,” she looked over at the girl to see tears in her inhumanly large, brown eyes. The page boy and the cup bearer. How tragic. “I am sorry,” she said. She had to be sure she was sorry only in the way one would be sorry at losing a cat, in the end you didn’t spare it the same consideration.

“Thank you, mistress,” the elf girl choked on the last word before running off. Sophina sighed to herself, turning her attention back to making sure she got the blood off of her skin and knowing she would have to burn the clothes she was wearing now. At least she had others.

* * *

Sophina could smell the burning flesh from the dinghy. The men with her didn’t seem to be bothered, sailors told stories of things more terrifying and mystical than a boat full of charred corpses after all. They moved port side of the large ship and the men tossed a rope ladder up. After pulling on it to make sure it was secure they moved out of the way to let her climb up.

Even though she could smell it from below, she still wasn’t prepared for the sight when she made it to deck. Though some bodies were charred and twisted most of them didn’t seem to have died from fire. In fact, some were still writhing on the deck. The masked sailors that came after her made short work of those who were still alive. Sophina had another task to do. Walking towards the stern of the Ferelden ship her quarry was hard to miss, watched over as it was by a summoned Arcane Horror. Given she was the one who had summoned it, the thing was technically under her control.

At its feet were an elf, a Qunari, a dog and the human mage. The other woman was paler of skin than normal and rather green around the gills. But that wasn’t what drew her attention. The other three were asleep, held firmly in check with the Horror’s spell, that was not the case with the Grey Warden. She was on the cusp of waking, one of her arms was the wing of a hawk, flapping as it hopelessly tried to lift her weight.

“What in the bloody void is _that_?” one of the sailors walking up behind her said. For men used to magic, it still didn’t take too much to bother them.

“She’s a shape shifter. It’s an old tradition, once common in the Avvars,” Sophina said and then mused, “I didn’t believe it was still practiced openly anymore. The Orlesian Chantry normally bans such things,” she said, thinking she’d at least have to reassess the Magister’s obsession with this girl.

“I want the other three on the boat,” Sophina ordered sharply, “ _I_ will take care of her,” she finished with a nod of her head to the mage. She pulled a dagger from a sheath on her hip and moved it easily against the skin on her arm. Blood came slowly to the surface, and started down her arm. She placed the hand of that arm on the other mage’s forehead.

“You will thank me for this later,” Sophina promised as she reached out, to enter a battle of wills with the other woman. It should have been easy to subdue a girl already under the influence of a sleep spell. Sophina didn’t expect to enter a contest of wills and it hit her like a bucket of cold water to the face. Gritting her teeth she brought forth as much power as she dared. It faced the image of a hawk diving in to her mind, going for the kill. Grief hung in Warden’s mind and Sophina chose to focus on that to create a makeshift cage. There was no telling how long it would last though.

Exhausted and breathing heavily, Sophina pulled away. She pressed her palm to the cut, the blood making her fingers sticky, “You two,” she called to a couple of sailors who were still rifling through the bodies on deck, “Take her, bind her hands and gag her. There is no way to know how long she will stay enthralled and she _is_ dangerous.” In the back of the woman’s mind had been a song! Was that the taint they spoke of?

While the sailors took them towards the dinghy, Sophina turned her attention to the Arcane Horror that stood watch where they were. The shock to the system had weakened the spell holding it in place, banishing it was going to be a fight and one she had to face head on. She could do it, she was, after all, a Magister’s Apprentice, if not worthy of being a Magister herself... yet.

* * *

At six, the Templars were terrifying. Orla sat in a pew across from her older sister, Grace. Grace was eleven and able to sit calmly, her hands folded in her lap. The Templars stood between the two of them, in the isle as they waited for the Revered Mother. Tears had left their tell-tale tracks across the dirt that stained Orla’s face. She looked over at Grace, who had walked in calmly with the Templars and was amazed that her sister hadn’t also been sobbing. How could she be so calm?

Grace had gone easily. Orla, however, they had to drag kicking and screaming for her mother’s skirts. She had no idea what the Templars were doing to stop the her lightning, the only defense she had. And it terrified her.

“Grace,” she whined plaintively, trying to get her sister’s attention.

“Quiet,” one of the Templars snapped. He towered above her more so than the anyone she could ever recall, “Quit your whining, girl.” The tone of the Templar’s command just made her cry more.

“Please, let me sit with her? I can quiet her down, I promise,” Grace pleaded, despite her otherwise passive nature, it was obvious this was wearing on her sister as well.

“No,” said the other Templar, a woman whose face seemed unnaturally cut from stone with juts and valleys that not even the most novice of sculptors would have left in the rock.

In fact, looking back and forth, it occurred to Orla that both of them were in a lot sharper relief than they should be. It was like they were cut right from the Chantry walls. It was then a raven cawed from a perch by one of the stained glass windows. Orla closed her eyes, “This is a dream. I _refuse_ to relive this,” she said, her voice firm. The child took a deep breath and opened her eyes an adult to the vast landscape of the Fade, the black city in the distance.

“Not this _again_ ,” Orla groused, exasperated. With a heavy sigh she took a moment to recreate her staff, her robes. There was something wrong with a world that considered the Fade a great trap for a _mage_. Any magically constructed prison could be equally deconstructed. The staff done, she leaned on it and looked around, this was not the open, raw fade. Someone had put her here. The fact that this was constructed meant she could find her way out through that person.

Whether or not it would be an easy task was another matter _entirely_.

A moment of exploration proved that she seemed to be set up in a labyrinth, the only way to go in this case was forward. It also likely meant that the maze would be populated with things from her own mind, meant to entice or pacify her. Each step forward would bring her closer to the mind of the person who put her here. Orla would not sit passively and wait to be awakened at the convenience of whomever had attacked the ship. The lives of her friends may depend on it.

No. Here, there was no way to go but forward.

There was a disturbing lack of traps, of demons, as she walked. Orla was becoming convinced that the trap was her mind, which meant those five minutes spent walking forward could have been as little as a second or as long as an hour. Time in the fade had no meaning, it could stretch on forever, meaningless, or pass so fast that it left you breathless. _This is way too easy_ , she thought the second before a step forward found her in her apprentice robes, back in the tower almost three years younger.

The transition was shocking, and did its best to wipe from her mind her awareness of the situation. The staff in her hands become a book that Orla clutched to her chest, startled as the knowledge that she tried desperately to hold on to slipped from her mind. _What was I doing?_ She wondered, looking down at the book in her hands, _I should return this to the First Enchanter._ Her teacher was more like a father to her but he wouldn’t be happy with her. She had a habit of not bringing back the materials she borrowed.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if she didn’t fall asleep on open books, leaving stains where she drooled over the ink. Some of them were completely irreplaceable and she had gotten better with that, but it still happened. She wasn’t looking where she was going as she turned the corner and ran head first into something cold and hard that sputtered out a hasty, “Orla? Are you… I mean… okay?”

Orla looked up and almost dropped the book. Cullen was new to the circle’s Templars and he always seemed to pop up where she was. At first she had thought it was cute, and thought _he_ was cute, but after awhile it had gotten… creepy. It hadn’t helped that Irving had noticed it and had lectured her rather sternly on what often came from a Mage-Templar relationship. Since then she had been trying to avoid him if she could. It was hard when the tower was so small and when the other apprentices knew and liked to throw them together.

“I’m fine,” she said, clutching the book closer to her chest like a shield and gazed at the floor. She had no weapons or armor to hide behind, and even the younger, greener Templars could stop a spell, it was what they did. It was _all_ they did. _Dear Maker, why did he have to be so cute?_ Orla wondered, trying to find a way out only to find she was flanked on either side by a bookcase. She did manage a couple of small steps back, which thankfully Cullen didn’t follow by walking forward, yet.

“Good, I mean, I wouldn’t want to hurt you. I mean for you to be hurt,” Cullen finished quickly. He did take a step forward then. Both stood in awkward silence for a long moment after that. “Where were you headed?” he finally asked.

“I have to return this book to the First Enchanter,” Orla returned, hoping that would be the end of it.

“He’s your mentor, isn’t he?” Cullen asked, “You must be very talented. After all you can’t have been here very long,” he said, and normally that would have been true. Most children who discovered their magic talent were at least old enough to understand what was going on at the time. It wasn’t the case with her.

“I’ve been here since I was six,” Orla said, “Almost ten years now. Can I pass yet?” she asked, the last taking on a the bite of sarcasm. Her wit was normally reserved for friends, but she was running late and she didn’t want to get in trouble over this.

“Really? That long?” Cullen returned, seemingly not hearing the last bit. When Orla didn’t answer he continued, “Um, why don’t I escort you?”

Orla bit her lip, to give no for an answer could be questioned, reported and treated like she was hiding something even though that wasn’t the case. She truly was just trying to return her reading material. And while Irving would vouch for her, it would be attention from the Templars she didn’t want. She had been her long enough to be practiced at staying out of the Templar’s sights. It was bad luck, to say the least, that she seemed to have caught one’s gaze now.

“If you like,” Orla said, trying to keep her voice impassive, “It’s only a short walk,” she pointed out.

He moved then, holding out one arm in a gesture that basically told her to get moving. Orla did, and hoped he wouldn’t follow her. However, Cullen fell in step beside her walking close enough to almost be touching. The heat off his body, even through the armor had her blushing and once again it didn’t help she thought he was cute. While the other apprentices were open and frequent with their dalliances, Orla had never indulged and now found herself questioning that wisdom. Maybe if it weren’t for the lack of it, it wouldn’t be on her mind so much now. Her studies had always been more enticing though. Now, with a side glance at him, she wondered…

The hallway seemed to curve off softly into the distance forever.

At first, Orla assumed it was embarrassment and her own wayward imagination that was tempting her with things she had never done that made the walk take so long. It wasn’t until she noted a portrait on the wall that they had passed already that she paused. Something was not right here, and it ate at the back of her mind. Something she had to remember. Other people depended on it…

That didn’t make sense though. Who, other than another apprentice would depend on her? Simply because she had the market cornered in writing theory papers for the others didn’t mean it was a matter of life and death. Unless you were Jowan.

Orla stopped dead, hit with an image so clear of Jowan beaten and bloody sitting in a dungeon as shocked to see her as she was to see him.

_“By all that’s…you.”_

Orla took another, closer look at Cullen, at the walls of the tower itself. They shimmered, and there was something decidedly unholy surrounding Cullen. Orla took a step back as the thing that was wearing the Templar’s skin so easily turned towards her, “What is it?” he asked, and along with Cullen’s voice there was another, running deep beside it.

“This is a dream, and you’re…you’re a…” Orla trailed off, she knew it was true and yet it sounded so insane.

The thing wearing Cullen’s face smiled, “And this is the best you could come up with,” it said, “Let me try, hmm?”

Orla’s clothing vanished, all that was covering her from the eyes of the demon was the book she still clutched to her chest. The hallway melted into a small dorm, a Templar’s room. Though a part of her didn’t want to, Orla looked up at him. Cullen, or the thing wearing his face, stood in front of her in nothing but his small clothes. It didn’t take long before it was close enough that its breath ruffled her hair. She trembled with both terror and desire as Cullen’s lips hovered over hers, not quite touching but close enough to set the skin on fire.

“Better?” he asked.

For the long, painful moment Orla couldn’t breathe quite right, she didn’t answer. “No,” she managed. It might have been an idle fancy and a pleasant daydream, but she had never _actually_ wanted this. The risk had been too great and in the end, it had just been infatuation. There had been things more worth her time and her attention. It might not have been the popular choice, but it had been _her_ choice.

“What?” the dual voice, the light and the tenor crept back into the demon’s voice. Along with a feeling of disbelief.

“I. Said. No!” Orla screamed, grabbing the thing by the neck, her skin and hair coming to light with electricity as magic coursed through her. The facade of Cullen faded, replaced by a desire demon, one in male form, screaming as power coursed through it, “The real Cullen never could listen to me either!” Orla’s anger fueled the lightning, “Oh, he’d never go _this_ far, but to get him to leave me alone I had to learn to be too forward to get him to run away. When I say ‘no’ I don’t mean ‘maybe!’ I mean no!”

The spell finally shattered the dream and the demon vanished along with it. Orla was standing in the open Fade with sparks still dancing on her skin. Breathing heavy, her memories now back she looked around she tried to gauge if the demon would return. It likely would. Orla knew that each temptation would be worse than the last; it was what they did. It was _all_ they did. And historically speaking they were quite good at it.

Orla stood up straight, “Many are those who wander in sin,” she quoted, “Despairing that they are lost forever, but the one who repents, who has faith unshaken by the darkness of the world, and boasts not, nor gloats over the misfortunes of the weak, but takes delight in the Maker’s law and creations, she shall know the peace of the Maker’s benediction,” the Chant didn’t do that much for her normally, but she had grown up hearing it. And she held some verses closer than others.

The landscape around her shimmered again and Orla continued the chant while building her mana and feeling the hair start to rise on her skin, “The light shall lead her safely through the paths of this world and into the next. For she who trusts in the maker, fire is her water. As the moth sees light and goes toward flame, she should see fire and go towards Light.”

“The _veal_ holds no uncertainty for her,” at the sound of the voice which she knew better than her own she faltered. Opening her eyes, Orla found herself in a large, well furnished room with Alistair. Shocked, the book she held fell to the floor. He was dressed well now, in fine furs and a well sewn doublet that was shaded an expensive violet. “No services today and yet here you are quoting the Chant,” he said with a laugh.

For a long moment she couldn’t say anything. Orla simply stood there, her hands over a mouth that hung open, agape with shock.

“Orla? What is it?” Alistair asked, concerned. He didn’t get to say anything else about it, as Orla flung her arms around him and pressed her lips to his. He didn’t hesitate in returning and deepening the kiss. It was like coming home again. This was where she belonged. She could stay here forever.

“Well, I’m certainly not going to protest a greeting like that,” Alistair said after the kiss, his voice breathless. Orla still clung to him, unwilling to let go, for some reason she was terrified that if she did so he would fade away. It was then she caught herself crying. By the time she realized that she was, it was too late to stop the flood of tears that ran down her cheeks. “Hey,” Alistair said, tilting her chin up and brushing the drops from her cheeks, “What’s this for?”

“I… I think I just woke up from a terrible dream,” Orla said, smiling through the flood of tears that refused to be held back, “I’m just so glad you’re here with me.”

“Now you’re just making me blush,” Alistair said brushing the tears from her face, “They’re waiting for us.”

“Who’s waiting for us?” Orla asked, sinking into his embrace. She couldn’t help but to feel this was where she belonged. It was what she had wanted since after Ostagar and it was so easy to accept it as truth.

“Everyone; our kingdom,” Alistair said, pulling away slightly to take her by the hand, “They want to see us. Let’s go give them what they want, hmm?”

Orla paused and then nodded, a smile breaking across her face, “Alright.”

He held her hand up as they walked towards the large, wooden door. It opened on it’s own, the light from the ballroom on other side blinding her for a moment. It was like walking in to the sun. When the glare faded there was thunderous applause. The room was full of faces, some she recognized and some she did not.

“His Royal Highness, King Alistair Theirin and his betrothed, the Lady Orla Amell,” as they were announced there was another round of applause and Orla shot a glance at Alistair.

“I thought you were marrying Anora,” she whispered. They had spent so much time setting it up, as horribly painful as it was. She had ripped out her heart for the good of Ferelden. The wound was still bleeding. Bringing it up was just a twist of the knife.

“Well, I lied,” he returned, the words dropping off his lips so lightly that Orla couldn’t help but to be taken in by them, “You’re the one I can’t live without.”

Orla took a moment to let that sink in. The truth was there, it mirrored what they had whispered to each other desperately when the shadows were the darkest, when the world had been reduced to just the two of them. Despite the tears on her cheeks the smile that pulled at her mouth was a real one. There hadn’t been many of those the past year.

“Shall we dance?” Alistair said, a nod to the ballroom floor. As he brought it up music seemed to fill the room. It reminded her of the music Leliana had played at camp. She and Alistair had danced to it while Morrigan rolled her eyes, Wynne hummed along, Sten sat in contemplation, Shale stomped on the birds that flew in, Oghren drank, Zevran clapped and made lewd comments and Dane nipped at their heels, as if trying to dance with them.

Though this time, it was just them. Neither of them could dance very well, but it didn’t seem to matter here. They didn’t trip over each other’s feet or stumble in to the other on a turn. Every move was perfect.

 _Everything is perfect_ , Orla thought. Alistair twirled her to the music as the beat picked up and the audience, faceless and formless clapped to the beat and made room for them. Curious, Orla tried to catch a glance of the faces only to find that no matter how hard she tried they all blurred together. They weren’t twisting and turning that fast. She should be able to see someone…

“Orla, look at me,” Alistair said and she felt compelled to do so, “Don’t worry about them. This is about us. There’s only us,” he whispered the last, his mouth close to hers.

“We’ve never danced this well,” Orla pointed out, trying so very hard not to lose herself in the motion, in the dance. To lose herself in thoughts of what would come later when they were alone.

“I’ve been practicing,” Alistair said impishly.

“When?” Orla asked, “We’ve been quite busy,” she pointed out. Oddly enough, blights did not defeat themselves.

“Does it matter?” he cooed, his breath on her ear.

“This isn’t right…” Orla muttered, a shiver running down her spine, “I shouldn’t be here,” she realized, though that was distant and dream like itself. In fact the last conversation she remembered with Alistair was bittersweet and filled with half-said things. Before that, an argument. _The_ argument.

“Why did you do it?” Orla asked.

“Do what?” his tone changed slightly and the crowd shimmered around them.

“The reason we’re both still alive to enjoy this ‘happy ending,’” Orla pressed, “I told you, you didn’t have to do it. I know you despise her. But here we are,” she finished. The Dark Ritual, and everything it had required, had disturbed Alistair. Orla made it clear she wasn’t going to force him to do anything, she was ready to die. She had already ripped her heart out for her country, her life seemed the next logical step.

And yet, when she struck that last blow on the Archdemon they were both still standing and Alistair hadn’t been able to meet her questioning gaze. He had done it. That her life was really worth that much to him still shocked her. _How many times am I going to have to do this?_ She asked herself, _Dear Maker, wasn’t once enough?_

“Does it matter?” his tone was snappish.

“I have a confession to make,” Orla said as he twirled her and then brought her close, “The night you spent with Morrigan I spent with Riordan.” The vision of the ballroom shuddered, “And I’m not sorry,” she said as the face of the thing that was not Alistair hardened and shifted. “Also,” Orla said harshly, “I am tired of having to do this. How many times do I have to tear out my heart to get past a barrier? To solve someone else’s damned problems?”

“Isn’t this what you want?” the echo on Alistair’s voice gave the demon away. Looking closely she could see the form of the desire demon, now in the guise of the man she loved more than her own life. And him wearing the facade of his form enraged her.

“Yes,” Orla admitted a cold bite on her voice. Lying wouldn’t serve any purpose here, “It’s everything I ever wanted. But I know what I am and what I can’t have. And the void take you for forcing me through it!” Lightning arced from her fingertips and then out around her, the vision falling to pieces. The demon dropped the guise of Alistair as it was hit. Through the tears that blurred her vision it almost seemed like there were two of them. It just angered her more.

“How _dare_ you!” Orla continued, electricity crackled off of her at every angle arcing into the demon, “If you could suffer, I would your existence a lesson in agony! But you’re a demon, this is all you know and I am _not_ giving you what you want.” The desire demon’s form writhed as the lightning arced over him. “This is a trap. I want to see who put me here. _Now_ ,” Orla spat.

The desire demon dissolved into nothing and the Fade shimmered. Orla could barely make out the form of another woman in front of her, human, with dark skin and tight auburn curls, her hands clutching her head.

“The music,” the other woman’s voice was distant, “make it stop.”

Orla walked towards her, “No. I won’t. It’s a part of me. You’ll have to kill me to make it stop,” she said, half a smile on her face, “And you’ve gone through too much trouble to want me dead. You’re lucky. It’s not as loud as it was before we killed the archdemon, but I always hear it. It’s always there,” Orla’s eyes focused on the woman’s flickering image, “And it will never stop.”

Orla took the final steps forward, reaching over and grasping the woman’s face and the dream exploded. She awoke, screaming, the dark skinned woman curled up in a ball on the wooden floor. Orla tried to lunge forward only to have heavy chains rattle and pull against the wall. She struggled against them as a pair of feet came into view in front of her.

“Well now, that _is_ quite impressive,” a smooth, slightly accented voice said. Orla looked up her blurred vision clearing to a man. His skin was halfway between hers and the woman rocking back and forth on the floor and his hair a deep brown. The ostentatious robes he wore were Tevinter in make and design. Orla attempted to lunge forward again the manacles biting in to her wrists. When he reached for her face she put an arcane shield up, his hand touching that instead. He caressed the barrier, his touch leaving a shimmering trail.

“Who are you? Where are my friends, my dog?” Orla snapped, a shudder running over her. His hand might not have been on her skin but she could feel where it ran over the magical barrier. After the nightmares she had just been forced to endure being touched was the last thing she wanted. Yet here was a man was so intent on invading her personal space that she had to put up a literal barrier.

He removed his hand though he still stood at the terminus of the barrier and gave a little bow, “I am Fortunatus Barbatus, Magister of Tevinter. You, my dear, may call me Atus.”

“I don’t think I will,” Orla returned, “And I am not your ‘dear.’” She returned his gaze with steel and fire in her blue eyes. “Where. Are. Zevran and Sten. Where. Is. My. Dog.”

“The elf and the qunari?” the Magister said, like it was an after thought, “They’re well enough, I assure you. Contained, of course, and considered a part of your household. The mabari is presently unharmed, but caged and chained to prevent him from damaging any of my property.”

“And what ‘property’ would that be?” Orla spat. She had a pretty good idea, given her past dealings with Tevinter magi in the alienage of Denerim. She had never known just how badly elves had been treated before. The Circle had sheltered her from so much.

“Come now, I shouldn’t have to say what you already know,” he said with a smile that rubbed already raw nerves the wrong way.

“Fine. Shouldn’t you see to your apprentice?” Orla asked, with a nod to the woman on the floor, taking a guess at her station. This man reminded her of Uldred and men like Uldred had their underlings do their dirty work.

“I assure you, dear, she will recover,” Atus said with a wave of his hand, “She isn’t important right now. _You_ are.”

“Why’s that?” Orla snapped, “And were the chains necessary?” Yes, this man was like Uldred. It wouldn’t surprise her in the least to find out he was possessed, but he lacked the otherworldliness that came with it.

“Why, to make sure you didn’t blow a hole in the boat, of course. Given your prior experience with my countrymen I figured this was the best way to keep you from doing so. But if you’re ready, I’ll be more than glad to see you moved to… better accommodations.”

“I would rather take my friends and my dog and go. Feel free to drop us at Par Vollen,” Orla said, standing as much as she could with her hands chained to the wall. She reached their limit, but pushed forward anyway with her shield still in place and her eyes cold.

“Of course you would,” he said, rubbing his fingers together idly and flicking a speck of something off, “But let us make this perfectly clear, Lady Amell. You are on a ship in the middle of the ocean surrounded by men who have learned to make a living fighting the enemies of Magisters, which includes other mages. Not to mention the collateral damage. Oh yes, and the fact that if you so much as raise a finger to shock anyone on this ship you will never see your servants or your dog again.”

Orla looked up at him with contempt. Even with the threat hanging in the air, the temptation was there to reduce the entire ship to ash. She could do it. She had slain the Archdemon. She had lead a year long campaign against the blight and had gone from a misty eyed, shy girl to a leader of an army. The girl she was would not have accepted the damage to others during an escape, the woman she was would willingly.

However, she wouldn’t throw her friends and her dog to the either the Tevinters or the sea. Neither had any mercy to offer.

“Well?” Atus prompted, smiling down at her, “I wouldn’t want to spend this trip chained to a wall. Won’t you take down that barrier now?”

The shimmering field hung in the air between them for a two deep breaths that for her took an eternity before it vanished with a soft popping noise, “Alright,” Orla said, her teeth clenched so much that it hurt, “But I am _not_ ‘Lady Amell,’” she held her head up defiantly, “I am the Commander of the Grey.”

“As you say,” Atus said dismissively. He gestured towards Orla and gave the command without looking back to his men, “Unbind the Grey Lady if you would,” he said. A soldier in Tevinter style armor stepped forward and with a click in the lock her right hand was free and then her left. She managed to adjust her balance well enough that she didn’t fall flat on her face and stood slowly.

On her feet, Orla placed her hand over the cuts the manacle had left on her right wrist. Soft white light glowed and she ignored the sudden push of a blade against her throat to finish the healing.

“Stand down,” Atus sounded more than a little annoyed. The blade withdrew, though Orla gave it no notice. It simply didn’t matter right now, “Let her heal her wrists. We aren’t barbarians.”

She moved on to the left wrist and despite rubbing them both afterward she couldn’t banish the dull ache. All of Wynne’s tutoring and it still seemed she’d never be a good healer. Done, she stood tall with her face impassive and looking straight ahead. She was a mess, covered with sea salt, dirt and blood. Orla also swore she could feel hay from the berth on the Ferelden ship, now lost at sea.

“Before you show me to my cabin, see to your apprentice,” Orla said, making it an order. Atus flushed and she could see he was holding back a rebuke as he plastered the most fake smile she had ever seen on his face and nodded to another one of his men.

“Take her to her bed, won’t you? I’ll show the Lady-”

“The _Commander_ ,” Orla corrected.

“-of the Grey to her cabin,” he finished.

“I want to see my companions first,” Orla ordered. Show no weakness, she would show no weakness.

“I assure you, your servant and animals are well cared for,” Atus returned, staring right back at her.

“Animals?” Orla returned, “My companions and my dog,” her voice was firm, “Sten is not an animal.”

“Truly?” Atus returned, his lip curling up in half a smile, “I wonder if you know it as well as our people do.”

“Just take me to them,” Orla snapped. She wasn’t going to get into a debate about the sincerity of her friends with someone who was willing to throw lives away to get her. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t take your word for their safety.”

“I’m hurt, truly,” Atus said, putting a hand to his heart. He didn’t sound hurt so much as he did amused, “but if the Lady-”

“Commander.”

“-insists,” he finished, ignoring her.

“I do insist. And if you’re going to refuse to call me Commander, call me Orla. But stop with the Lady,” she said firmly. She didn’t like the title at all. As far as Orla was concerned she was not a lady. The title was reserved for the nobility and she was not nor would ever be that, no matter what her mother might have been before she was born.

“Such a beautiful name,” Atus noted, “It’s very Ferelden. What does it mean…?” he asked casually as he gestured for her to follow him. Instead of behind him, she fell into step at his side with her gaze facing forward.

“Andraste’s Golden Crown,” Orla said. The downside of having a very religious mother was after Grace, she had named her and Brandon from the Chant in a hope that they wouldn’t inherit the curse that her eldest sibling had. And they all had, so either the Maker didn’t listen or he had a sense of irony that could only be described as cruel.

“A fitting name for a regal woman,” Atus noted with a slight smile as Orla stayed in step beside him. The happy bark was the first sign that they were getting closer. She could hear Dane’s thrashing rattle the chains he was bound in. The room was filled with hay and chains, the amount on Sten nothing short of impressive.

“Ahh, there is our _bella_ ,” Zevran’s voice sounded a bit weak, but was there, “See, my overly large friend. I told you she was fine.”

Sten responded with a grunt she barely heard as she passed their host, stopping Dane from jumping against the chains and sitting down next to in his small cage, wagging his tail, “Zev, Sten, are you two okay?”

“We’ve been better, _bella_ ,” Zev said with a small smile.

“They have my sword, _Kadan_ ,” Sten growled.

“I’m surprised you didn’t start crushing skulls,” Orla said with a small smile, trying to make the best of it.

“Oh, he was tempted, _bella_ , but we weren’t assured of your own safety,” Zevran noted, the chains clinking as he sat back.

“Well, I’m here now,” Orla said, petting Dane who was nuzzling her hand and whining. She turned to face the Magister, standing up, “I will have my dog and my bodyguard with me and his sword returned,” she said, “My elfin servant can work with yours.”

“I am a very good servant!” Zevran said happily.

“I would recommend cutting out his tongue,” Sten said dryly.

Orla tried very hard not to crack a smile, “Quiet, both of you,” she said firmly, turning back to face Atus, “It will save you the resources needed to watch them.”

“Well, I don’t see why not, but I am against giving the beast his sword back,” Atus said, returning her gaze.

“Peace-tie it. As long as you don’t try to harm me you have nothing to fear from him,” Orla returned.

For a moment, he said nothing and Orla wondered if this was a battle of wills that she was going to lose, and then Atus nodded, his dark hair bouncing slightly with the action, “Very well. That seems more than fair to me. You are, after all, our guest. We do wish you to feel safe.” Orla suspected there was more to it than that. That he had cards up his hand that she wasn’t even aware of. She didn’t plan on making a break for it here, though. They were in the middle of the ocean; there was nowhere to go. And he knew that. What difference would a dog and Qunari make against a ship full of Tevinter soldiers? The beef bones she tossed Dane from the table held more freedom in them than this arrangement did.

“Where is my sword?” Sten asked, his hands flexing in the chains.

“We’ll have it brought to your mistress’ room,” Atus said, not looking at Sten. From behind him the guard came and unlocked Zevran’s binds first, but hesitated at Sten.

“He won’t hurt you,” Orla said. _Right now_ , she added silently.

The man was obviously reluctant and did his best to get out of the Qunari’s range after the bindings were undone. Sten simply stood there, not moving so much as an eyelash. The nervous guard went to Dane next. The moment the large mabari was free, he bounded forward knocking the man out of the way and jumping on Orla, knocking her to the floor, licking her face with a gusto.

“Yes, I’m glad to see you too, boy,” she said, managing to get out from under Dane while ignoring Atus’ amused expression. Now she had dog slobber to add to the things that currently stuck to her skin like a coat of bad paint. She stood up calmly. Years of dealing with Templars made it easy to not have her real thoughts present on her face, instead a simple calm was there.

“I’d like to be shown to my room now. And please have a bath ready,” Orla said, keeping her expression impassive.

“But of course,” Atus said with a nod, “Please, follow me,” he said, gesturing out the door to the hold with his hand, a smile on his face as he turned on his heel and started forward.

 _Flames, what have I fallen into now?_ Orla asked herself as she fell in step behind the magister. It must have been her fate to have this type of thing happen to her over and over. _Just once, I’d like a trip to go just as planned._

They followed the Magister through the ship to a hallway with two ornate doors on either side. Atus stopped and gestured to the door on the left, “Your room, Orla,” he said, “Across from my own.”

“How,” _predictable,_ she thought, “nice of you,” Orla said with a forced smile, her hand on the door.

“After you get yourself cleaned up and changed you’re more than welcome to join me for dinner,” Atus said. His tone made it obvious the invite was mandatory.

Orla didn’t look back, keeping her hand on the door, her expression grim but her tone polite, “Thank you for the kind invitation.” Orla opened the door. The room was a lot more spacious than one would expect on a ship. It was very well furnished too, but the most important thing was the stonework tub by the small, round window, an elf girl with a towel standing by it, waiting. The girl couldn’t take her eyes off of Sten who closed the door with a hollow thud. The poor thing looked terrified and tried to speak and Orla sighed, “What is it? You don’t have to be afraid of him.”

“His…his sword,” the girl managed, pointing to the bed where the large blade sat, peace tied and magically bound to the scabbard.

“ _Asala_ ,” Sten said, his tone hiding fondness, as he picked up his blade. He fastened it back into place and then stood tall by the door, “I will stand guard here, _Kadan_ ,” he said firmly. The way he stood you wouldn’t have guessed he just spent time chained up.

“Thank you, Sten,” Orla said. He often pointed out that thanks was not required and she always pointed out that it was a force of habit. Politeness added to longevity for Circle Mages. Now the exchange was silent between them, having happened so many times that each knew the steps. The looks done, Orla turned her back on the Qunari and started struggling with her sea-salt caked robes.

“Mistress, no, let me do that for you!” the elf-girl’s voice was panicked. Orla paused, looking out over the rise of the blue and silver fabric to see the girl standing right in front of her, attempting to get her hands on the fabric.

“When last I checked I could undress myself,” Orla returned, confused as to the level of panic coming from the elf-girl.

“But I’m to be yours while you’re here!” the girl squeaked, pulling at Orla’s abused robes, “Please, I have to do this for you!” she exclaimed with one last pull sending both her and the elf girl backwards as the robes went off over her head. Orla landed on a deck with a thud clad only in her small clothes, the girl right next to her buried in the Grey Warden robes, quickly folding them up.

“You really didn’t have to do that,” Orla said, standing up and crossing her arms over her chest out of force of habit. Being nude around Sten didn’t mean anything, the stoic Qunari often guarded water holes while the group took turns bathing so she had gotten over fear of being seen naked by him. It was other people that still threw her for a loop somewhat. Magi in the tower didn’t have servants, “I am perfectly able to dress and undress myself.”

“No, Mistress,” the girl said, standing up and bowing her head, the red-blonde hair covering her face and those wide elfish eyes, “I’ve been charged to do this while you’re with us, if I don’t…” she trailed off, taking a step backwards. Orla recognized the look of someone who felt they had said more than they should have. She sighed, attempting to run a hand through her tangled hair not getting far.

“You can stay in here, but I really don’t need help with simple things okay?” Orla said, starting on her small clothes before the girl could get it in her mind to try to peel those off her as well. She wasn’t going to get into a fight over who was taking off her under garments. Not with an elf girl she barely knew, anyhow. If she was getting into that kind of fight, well, there was only one person who still could have demanded that kind of attention.

And she had purposely left him behind.

Upset was a mild word to describe her emotions as she removed the last of the soaked and salted fabric and tossed it towards the bed before walking over to the tub and stepped in. After she settled into the steaming water she ducked under the water, holding her breath and letting the heat wash over her and start to take the sea from her skin. She didn’t have to like where she was, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that the bath was as close to the Maker’s Side as one could get.

Orla came up for air, sucking in a deep breath and then jumping backwards as the first sight to greet her through her wet hair were the large brown eyes of the elf-girl, “Don’t do that!”

“I’m sorry, Mistress!” she said, holding up a woven basket full of soaps, “I brought these. I thought, I mean do you need - or would you like help with your hair?”

Looking through the tangled, red locks Orla considered. She probably did, at least if she wanted to get it combed to any reasonable degree of neat, “Sure,” Orla said, “But don’t call me Mistress, my name is Orla,” she tried turning a smile on the girl, “What’s yours?”

“My what, Mistress Orla?” the girl said, setting the basket down and picking out soap, washrags and a sponge. Orla rolled her eyes, it was likely as good as she was going to get from her so she wasn’t going to push the issue again.

“Your name. I can’t just call you ‘hey elf’,” Orla explained.

“Though that is what we called the elf for months after we picked him up,” Sten chimed in.

“ _I_ called him Zevran,” Orla returned, unable to stop the small smile though it faded when she remembered that Alistair had called the assassin Ser Stabbity Stabbity Poke Poke for about a month and a half. “Anyway, I would prefer to use your name.”

The girl paused with a sponge in one hand and some scented soap in the other. It took her a moment before she spoke, “Edrea,” she said, “My name’s Edrea.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Edrea,” Orla said, “Now, I’ll gladly take some help with my hair, please.”

Edrea smiled in return, one that slowly spread from her lips to her earth brown eyes, “Of course, Mistress Orla.”

* * *

Atus picked up a goblet of spiced wine that one of the slaves in the chamber had topped off. The spice hung on his tongue for a moment before evaporating, leaving behind a pleasant tang. The looking glass on the wall next to him was polished silver with old runes on it. It didn’t reflect his image, though. He moved his hand over the glass, the runes shining faintly at the touch of mana. The mirror came alive, crystallizing an image of the room across the small hall in perfect clarity.

While the two beasts guarded the door, the object of his attention bathed, one of the slaves helping her with her hair. That red hair, which even salted and tangled was so much more beautiful in person. And her poise when she had stood toe to toe with him… it had been hard to not take her right there. If he had though, he wouldn’t get to enjoy this show. Trained women and boys who knew how to display their bodies to the best of their advantage could not hold a candle to Orla Amell.

Atus had watched her for years once his research on the lines from Kirkwall was complete. At first he had been planning to spirit her from the circle to Tevinter. He knew that once she was there the short sighted Orlesian Chantry would brand her a blood mage and she would not be able to return to Ferelden or any other uncivilized void-cursed hole. Then, the Wardens had recruited her. Though it put a small damper in his plans, it did mean she was now easier to get to. Then she had taken that bastard prince for a lover! To say he was jealous would be an understatement. He still wanted to burn the man to a crisp for daring to touch _his_ Orla. It wouldn’t be advisable now, as the idiot sat on Ferelden’s throne. At least he was out of the picture.

He didn’t begrudge her her one night with the older Warden, however. It had been just a night and the man had died shortly after - Atus having watched it all knew it for what it was, knew her for what she was. As he now watched her bathe, taking in every detail, letting it soak in to him as the soap and water did to her. Those perfect breasts, smaller than most but firm and round with pale pink points excited by the water and the washing called out to him. He reached out and caressed the image, tragically all he could feel was the cold glass. Soon, though, it would be her flesh under her hands.

Orla stood up and stepped out of the tub and he shifted his few behind her, taking in the view. She had more muscle now than she did in the Circle Tower. The Warden’s life had been good for her, resulting in a well formed and shapely buttocks. Again, he stroked the glass, the heat and strength of his desire becoming painful. Standing up, he grabbed the young elf who poured his wine, being the closest warm body in the room. He bent the boy over the table, tearing open the fabric of the elf-boy’s trousers. Moving his own robes out of the way, he was in deep with a single thrust. His eyes weren’t on the boy, the whole time he watched her. The water dripping off of her body, the curve of her hips, the play of the light on her skin. And when she bent over to dry her hair, a view of his final prize, pink and ripe as any flower.

His.

Finished, he ignored the shaking elfin slave boy who picked up the items that had fallen from the table. Atus moved to the mirror and touched his cheek to the cold glass, “You’re finally mine, Orla Amell…”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran, tossed in with the other elven slaves finds out the extent of Atus' obsession with Orla in one of the worst possible ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger Warning** : This chapter deals with the aftermath of the rape from the previous chapter. While I attempted to give the subject the respect it deserves, a good portion of this chapter may be triggering to survivors and friends/family of survivors as well. For those who have gone through or helped others go through this, stay strong.

**Personae Dramatis  
 _Orla Amell_** \- Grey Warden, Enchanter from the Ferelden circle.  
 **Zevran** \- Ex-Antivan Crow. Roguish Assassin with a penchant for not keeping his mouth shut.  
 **Sten** \- A Sten of the Beresaad, he came to Ferelden to answer the question ‘What is the Blight.’ Was returning to Par Vollen with Orla and Zevran.  
 **Dane** \- A pure bred Mabari that Orla saved at Ostagar. He has been her loyal hound since then.  
 **Sophina** \- Apprentice to Magister Barbatus  
 **Magister Fortunatus “Atus” Barbatus** \- Magister recognized by the Senate, holds various estates across the Tevinter Empire. Has a deep interest in Orla.  
 **Edrea** \- Elfin slave to the Barbatus household.

* * *

They took Zevran’s small armory of daggers. He had expected that but he still felt naked without them. The armor was gone too, but that didn’t have the same meaning or comfort as his knives. He was now dressed in a pair of breeches that had to be tied in to place with a bit of rope and a shirt that hung around his frame like a tent. However, it could be worse. He knew that for a fact. He kept a slight smile on his face while his eyes scanned every inch of the boat as he walked, a Tevinter soldier on each side.

“His mistress had this elf extremely well armed,” one of them remarked, as they pushed him forward in an effort to make him go faster, “It’s a waste of good steel.” 

They spoke Tevene. It would serve him better right now for the humans in charge to not know he understood it perfectly. It was not the first time he had been as a slave to humans. Training to be a Crow basically had been that. A very deadly, exact form of slavery.

One that Zevran had bought his freedom from in blood. And in blood he would pay for breaking the oath he had taken. Zevran was rather looking forward to that. He kept his face forward and his smile dumb as the conversation continued.

“What’s the point of arming an elf? They’re more likely to trip on the blades and gut themselves than they are their target,” his companion said and they both laughed, “Then there’s the Qunari. This Grey Lady is either very powerful or insane,” he finished.

“And we’re stuck on a boat with her and her body-slave for two weeks,” said the first.

“Why would she arm a body-slave?” the other asked, confused. Zevran was trying not to laugh at the idea of Sten as an accessory in Orla’s bedchamber. He could visualize the shade of red the idea would turn her.

“She’s a Magistra. Why do they do anything?” the first asked, opening the door to where the elves worked the bilge pump. The smell was nearly enough to make him vacate his stomach. They pushed him in the room, “You work here,” one of them said in stilted Ferelden.

“Excellent!” Zevran chirped as he caught his footing easily, “Where do I start?”

Guard number one pointed to the pump as if that said it all, and it did. Zevran walked forward to join a few other elves, each had more bulk than he did though not a one of them would ever match what a human could manage. It was a good thing he wasn’t any slouch either as the pump was hard to move. The slave whose place he took started off to the corner to steal a moment’s of rest before being pushed towards the stairs.

“To the galley with you; the cook needs help,” the human overseer snapped. The two soldiers looked on for a moment before deciding their job was done and leaving Zevran in the tender care of the overseer and two other elves, one younger than him and one older and graying who wore the signs of his life on his face.

“Your mistress must really hate you to have you end up down here,” the older one said, gravel on his voice, “I know you can understand us. Don’t think we didn’t see the light in your eyes. You can talk, the overseer here is practically deaf.”

“We have to be dying screaming for him to hear us,” said the younger, almost laughing, “even then he’d likely just ignore it.”

“Ah, so it is like that then,” Zevran said as they worked, ankle deep in spilled bilge water. “My ‘mistress’ who isn’t such and would be flabbergasted to be called thusly likely has no idea they placed me here,” Zevran said frankly but with his usual mirth.

“She’s a Magistra, they’re all the same,” the elder said, working the pump, “I’d say she might miss you in bed but we hear she has a Qunari for that.”

“I hear it’s a hornless one,” said the younger, “That’s kind of odd, I mean normally the big horns are a selling point. The bigger the horns…”

Zevran couldn’t help it anymore, he burst out laughing. The image was just too ludicrous to deal with anymore, “I can personally assure you,” he managed through his laughing, “that neither the Qunari or I have been so lucky as to grace Orla’s bed. Though I do admit, I have walked in on her a few times.” He appreciated the beauty his friend had and was often unaware of and wouldn’t _object_ to a tumble with her, or more than one. It simply hadn’t happened and he was okay with the idea that it never would. A close friend was a greater treasure than a sometimes-lover.

“The way he says it, _baba_ , I almost believe him,” the younger one said.

“Theron, don’t let the smell of the bilge blind you to the smell of shit when it comes out of someone’s mouth,” the elder said in gentle rebuke.

“I assure you that while I am a master of spinning lies, _this_ is the Maker’s own truth,” Zevran returned.

“A Magistra who doesn’t take slaves to her bed?” The elder said, and he and Theron exchanged looks, “So, she must prefer other women then. Hard luck. We did manage to catch a glimpse of her and she’s not bad, for a human.”

Zevran shook his head, coughing a bit at the rank smell as they worked, “Ah, even if I was her bed toy I don’t think she’d welcome me now. Not without a bath anyway.”

“There’s truth in that. No one wants a shit-smelling elf in their bed,” the elder elf said, “What’re you called?”

“Zevran,” he said, “Formerly of the grand Antiva City! Lately of the bilge room of a ship,” he said.

“Aeton, and Theron there is my son,” the elder elf said, “The poor sod who got sent to the galley for a beating is Xan. All property of Magister Fortunatus Barbatus who, Maker willing, will slip and fall into the sea.”

“And poison the fish?” Zevran said, “What a terrible thing to say!”

“He’s right, _baba_ , we have to eat the fish,” Theron said, and the three chuckled while they worked. The laughter and the banter were the only things that kept them going through the hours until three more poor souls came in to replace them. They were ushered out to a small hold filled with berths and had bread and water shoved into their hands. Aeton offered Zevran a spot on the floor in a circle with the others who were now off duty and he took it.

This type of simple camaraderie reminded him of his days training for the Crows. After the weapons training, the beatings and the attempts to kill the students, those who made it through the day would sit in the shared bedroom and eat. Despite the efforts of the Crows to integrate it, the elves had always kept to one side and the humans another. Here there weren’t any humans to push off to the side, merely a group of exhausted elves trying to spend the short time they had to themselves living.

The berths were not split between men and women which became obvious as the women began filtering in and sitting down. Tired laughter and flirtations filled the small room; Zevran smiled to himself only to be knocked out of the quiet moment when a pair of warm, soft arms wrapped around him.

“Here’s the new face! I claim him,” a woman’s voice chirped and a few other let out disappointed sounds.

“Oh, I assure you there is enough of me to go around,” Zevran said happily looking at the woman who had latched on him. She was an attractive girl with a skin tone close to his own, slanted gray eyes and sleek black hair that was damp with sweat and smelled of a kitchen.

“I can keep you busy enough tonight, I promise,” she said. The girl’s black hair smelled of bread and cooked fish with the barest hint of fresh fruit. It was a stark contrast to the scent of the bilge that he was soaked in. It didn’t seem to bother her, however. Zevran didn’t bother to shrug her off as he took a bite of the stale bread, the warmth of another body was a more than welcome distraction.

The girl looked up, the skin on her cheek brushing against his, “Hey, _baba_ , where’s Edrea?” she asked Aeton. There was a concern in her voice that made it obvious the question was more than just an idle conversation. Zevran didn’t think he was reading too much into it. Accidents and deaths were common things for slaves, doubly so in Tevinter where blood magic was so common that you were more likely to run into a high dragon than a Magister who didn’t slit their wrists for fun and profit.

“The cook rattle your brains, girl?” Aeton said around a mouthful of bread, “She’s the personal slave for that Magistra our master’s been on about forever and a day.”

“Why does _she_ get to sleep on clean blankets at the foot of a soft bed in one of those large, fancy cabins?” she asked, halfway between whining and jesting. There was something else there too, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He was quite good at reading other’s tones, but he didn’t know her well enough to quite figure it out.

“And when did you learn to speak Ferelden, Rena? You’d be more useless than usual, girl. So stop complaining about it and get on whatever you’ll be on tonight,” the old elf returned to tired laughter from the others in the room. Zevran had a feeling he knew what Rena would be ‘on’ tonight. It brought a grin to his face. Not only was it a good way to pass an evening, but in-between tumbles he could press for information both about the slaves and about their master. Servants, slaves, children and the poor were all invisible to those who considered themselves above in station and in standing, and as such were valuable sources of information for those who knew how to tap them.

Not to mention the fact that the tapping was _quite_ enjoyable.

“Aeton!” the call came from an older woman at the door, holding up a boy who was in the twilight of his childhood years but still had the the look of the young. It was the apparent long-lasting youth that made elfin boys and girls popular with humans and Zevran knew instantly what had happened. The mood in the room changed from tired, but jovial, to a concern for the boy with a palpable undertone of anger.

Rena tensed, “Oh, Maker,” she whispered, “Frayne!” And with that the girl pulled away and ran with Aeton and Theron to the door. There was a flurry of activity as everyone made room and spread what dirty sheets were available on the floor so the boy, Frayne, could be placed down.

Everyone made room as the old woman gently laid the boy down. Zevran moved to get a better look, kneeling by the boy. There were hand marks on the back of his neck that wrapped around to the front like a noose. Frayne curled up into a ball on the thin sheets, hands clutching his stomach like a woman in her time would. Tears streaked down his face. Sadly, there was no way to tell just how injured the boy was without putting him through the ordeal again.

“Rena,” Aeton said sharply.

Rena looked up from where she had dropped to her knees, cradling the boy’s head. There wasn’t a family resemblance and yet Zevran knew the bonds of such when he saw them. Blood did not make a family. In situations and places like this parents often abandoned their children behind or they would die before parents. You made family out of what was left.

“What, _baba_?!” Rena snapped, looking up.

“Pull yourself together,” Aeton’s tone was harsh, but necessary. Falling apart wouldn’t help anything right now, certainly not Frayne who needed strong support and not tears. Tears were to be shed in private, if at all. This was something Zevran had more personal experience with than anyone would want.

“You know where the front cabins are, don’t you, girl? Go get Edrea. Make whatever excuse to the Magistra you have to, but you fetch Edrea,” he finished, then placed a gentle, calloused hand on her shoulder, “We’ll be here with him, Rena.”

Zevran stood up and offered a hand to Rena, “Come. I will walk with you, _bella_ ,” he offered, “I can explain to the Magistra,” Zevran offered. It would curdle Orla’s blood to hear herself called that, but somehow he doubted these people would understand why he could call her by her first name. He had to admit, sometimes it was startling to be on a first name basis with a woman who could kill an archdemon.

Rena’s large gray eyes met his and searched them in silence for a moment before she nodded and took his hand, “Alright. Like _baba_ says, I don’t speak the language anyway.” 

Zevran helped her to her feet. They both looked down at Frayne who writhed on the bunched up, dirty sheets. Even though he was already inclined to dislike their host, now he could feel dark coils of hatred bubbling to the surface for the man. He pushed it aside the best he could. Hatred was unprofessional. It made one make mistakes. Mistakes that could get him killed. An assassin was of no use to anyone dead.

“Then I will speak for you,” Zevran said simply. They started on their way, the ship was large and seemed to Zevran to be more like a floating manse than a ship. Rena lead the way, a couple steps in front of him. He noted that her hands were balled up in fists at her hips and she was shaking with rage. 

He didn’t want his words to stir a hornet’s nest so he waited until they were out of earshot of the others to speak up, “The Magistra is reasonable,” he said, catching himself just short of saying Orla’s name, “You may be surprised.”

Rena responded with a short, bitter laugh, “They’re all the same. She must have you broken real good for you to be saying that. This is all her fault anyway.”

He had expected the first part of the reaction. Orla would have to prove herself with actions, that was nothing new and she had always manage to come out ahead. It was the last part of the statement that stopped him in his tracks. He raised an eyebrow as he grabbed Rena gently by the wrist, “What do you mean ‘all her fault’?”

Rena pulled her hand back and shoved a finger in his face, “Your mistress is the reason all of this happens in the first place! That bastard and his obsession with her. Every time he gets worked up he does this to someone!”

Zevran took the outburst in stride. He couldn’t deny that it was justified, even if it was misdirected, “Are you aware of how they treat Mages outside of Tevinter?” he asked her simply, not yelling, not correcting, just asking.

“What? No! What does that have to do with anything?” Rena snapped.

“Even if she knew about this, which she did not, there would have been no way for her to come and stop it. Until last year she was kept in a tower with other mages watched over by warriors trained to kill them at the slightest sign of whatever it was they deemed corruption. And sometimes simply because they _could._ It is not the same as being a slave, true, but I think you will find she understands the feeling of helplessness better than most,” Zevran finished.

“There’s no place on Thedas that would treat mages like that,” Rena snorted with disbelief.

“The world is a very large place, _bella_ ,” Zevran noted, walking past her and starting the trip towards Orla’s cabin anew, “And most of it is not like Tevinter.”

“I don’t believe it,” Rena said firmly, falling into step beside him, “And I’m sorry you’re too damn enthralled to see the truth of things.”

“The truth is often not as simple as we think, _bella_ ,” Zevran noted to himself, “The world would be an easier place if it were.”

* * *

Finally clean and free from the dirt and salt water, Orla felt like she could finally breathe. She inhaled deeply, the scent of perfumes and oils that had been worked into her hair almost overwhelmed her. She had never been so perfumed in her life, including when they readied her for the Landsmeet. In Orla’s mind Edrea was too eager to help, but she didn’t mind the extra pair of hands given how messed up she had been. Now, with her hair hanging wet and combed she stood for a moment wondering what she was going to wear. For the moment her Grey Warden regalia was out of the question. The salty, wet heap had already been removed from the cabin.

Orla stretched, taking a moment to glance at her naked form in the full length looking glass. She was dotted with more scars than freckles now. It wasn’t until she took a second look at the mirror that she realized this one was all polished silver. In fact the room was dotted with more signs of wealth than she had ever seen. Gold trim on furniture, jewels inlaid into gentle patterns resembling stylized dragons. The dressing table she was looking at now had to be at least two hundred years old judging by the style of the stenciling. Just how rich was this Magister? Did they all flaunt it in such a manner?

“They are a corrupt people, _kadan_ ,” Sten spoke up, answering her silent question. Orla nodded once, running her fingers over the gentle carvings on the wood. There wasn’t any point to pomp like this. For _her_. It made no sense.

“Hey, we aren’t corrupt you… giant… door stop?” Edrea spoke up, the last coming out barely audible as Sten stood up to his full height of eight feet.

“The makers of all this pomp consider you property, a thing,” Sten pointed out.

“That’s true,” Edrea said after a moment, and the elf girl slipped some sleek fabric over Orla before she had a chance to stop her. The girl’s deft and practiced hands got her arms through the sleeves and tied the dressing robe in place, “but there are more of us than there are of them, and we aren’t corrupt. Elven hands made this robe, elven hands built just about everything in here, even the boat.”

“But you don’t own it,” Orla pointed out, fingering the fabric of the deep green robe. It was unlike anything she had ever seen, “What is this?” she asked looking at Edrea.

“Silk, Mistress Orla,” Edrea said, her small hands opening a jeweled box and then looked back at her as if she just realized something, “Are your ears pierced, Mistress Orla?” she asked.

“Huh?” Orla was taken aback, “No. There wasn’t ever a reason to.”

“I’ll have to fetch some ice and a needle then,” Edrea said to herself, closing the box and setting it aside.

“What?” Orla blanched, “Oh no. No, no, no. You do not need to fetch any ice,” she said firmly. She could deal with being bathed, powdered and dressed in something like this - if forced - but Orla was not having a needle shoved through her ear for anyone.

“No ice?” Edrea tilted her head quizzically, “Are you going to numb your ears yourself, Mistress Orla?” she asked, “I, um, wouldn’t recommend that. It can be hard to tell when you’ve gotten it just right and it will either hurt because you didn’t do enough or hurt because you numbed it too much. I mean, forgive me for saying it,” she said, bowing her head quickly and Orla got the feeling the girl was expecting to be slapped. She looked up quickly once, and then twice and finally held Orla’s gaze when she realized there wasn’t any corporal punishment coming.

For a long moment neither of them said anything. Neither moved. The tension didn’t quite melt off the elfin girl completely, Orla wouldn’t expect it to. Still, she made no move.

“You’re not going to punish me, Mistress Orla?” Edrea finally asked.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Orla said simply, “Well, other than saying we’re piercing my ears because we’re not going to. But I’m not going to punish you. There’s nothing to punish,” she finished.

Edrea gave her a look like she had lost her mind but didn’t correct her. Orla hadn’t expected to be corrected. While expecting punishment for something was one thing, actually wanting it was another thing entirely and Orla would be worried if the girl started begging for a beating. As weird as her life had been so far, having someone beg to be hit or punished by her was something that hadn’t happened yet.

“And you don’t have to keep calling me Mistress,” Orla said, “At least when it’s just us, I mean I don’t want to get you in trouble,” she amended quickly. While there had been some amount of prejudice against the elves in the Circle for the most part they had all been in the same sinking ship. It might have been different had she been raised outside the Circle of Magi where elves were servants if they were lucky but she couldn’t get over being called ‘Mistress’ and waited on hand and foot for every little thing.

Edrea looked like she was going to say something, her mouth opening when the door to the cabin opened, followed by a stench that turned her stomach and curled her toes. Given that there wasn’t the sound of a crunching bone that would mean Sten was crushing necks and that Dane only let out a happy woof she knew who it was before she looked over. Zevran stood there, smelling like he had crawled out of a privy. She had to cover her mouth with the sleeve of the robe to keep from gagging.

“What happened to you?” Orla asked, recoiling from the smell.

“I notice no difference,” Sten said simply.

“You’ll have to pardon the intrusion, _bellas_ and my overly large friend,” Zevran said, his voice devoid of it’s normal mirth, “but I bring a message for Edrea. Well, I do not, but she does,” Zevran said, making way for a dark skinned elf girl who didn’t look much older than Orla. For a moment the girl stood in the doorway, staring agape at Sten like she couldn’t decide if the large Qunari was something to be afraid of or not.

“Rena?” Edrea said, and then rattled something off in Tevinter.

The voice pulled the dark haired girl out of her stupor and she ran into the cabin, taking Edrea by the arms and rattling off something Orla had no hope of following.

“What’s going on,” she whispered, moving to stand beside Zevran. Proximity made the smell worse but curiosity over rode it.

“Our host is a worse person than we may have thought originally,” Zevran said, “How is it said? We have jumped out of the pot and into the fire, yes?”

“Then we leave,” Sten said firmly, as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

“How?” Orla snapped, “Fight our way through a ship full of soldiers, slaves and at least two blood mages if not more? And then where do we go? We’re in the middle of the bloody ocean!” Orla didn’t swear often but she was frustrated and it gnawed at her. The inability to do anything to change their situation, “If we take the boat, what then? Sail it to Par Vollen with a crew of three? I _hate_ boats,” she snapped, “Not to mention I barely know a thing about them!”

“Besides,” Zevran interjected, “Even if we could sneak away it wouldn’t make a difference,” the lack of nicknames and the sheer seriousness of his tone hit Orla in the gut, hard. Something was very wrong here.

“What do you mean?” Orla asked.

“Explain yourself, elf,” Sten said, crossing his massive arms over that mountain of a painted chest.

“Apparently our host has been attempting to get his hands on you for quite some time, Orla,” Zevran said, his tone sending shivers down her spine.

“What?” Orla breathed.

“Make sense, elf,” Sten demanded.

“I do not know how it is being done because the other elves aren’t sure but he has been after you long enough that there is not a person on this ship who doesn’t know your name,” Zevran said, “And it has some…consequences,” he noted, a glance over to the two elven women. Edrea was pale and shaking.

Walking like her legs no longer could support her full weight, Edrea came to stand in front of them and then dropped down to her knees. Orla could hear the tears the girl’s hair hid from view on her voice, “Mistress Orla, I beg your leave for the rest of the evening.”

Orla gave Zevran a shocked look, unsure to make of this. The ex-Crow simply nodded once in return. Orla then dropped down to her knees, putting herself on the same level as Edrea and placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder, “What happened?” she asked.

Edrea shook her head in reply and choked on a sob. Orla felt like someone punched her in the gut. Something was very wrong here. Suddenly all these gifts she known had been put out to tempt her felt tainted. She wished for her own clothing, her own things and her own space but it had all been taken away. She swallowed and nodded once and helped her to her feet.

“This is my fault, isn’t it?” Orla said, “Someone’s hurt and it’s because of me,” she managed, going pale herself. They were in the clutches of a madman and a straight up fight would kill them all. To make matters worse, people were getting hurt on her account.

“You are not the one who did this,” Zevran said firmly, “You are not to blame for someone else’s depravity, Orla.”

Orla looked over at Zevran while she held on to Edrea, steadying the shaking servant girl her own eyes wide at the revelation that this was a lot worse than she had thought. She had felt like it might be but once awake and cleaned up and out of Atus’ presence it was easy to let it slide because he wasn’t treating her like this. Part of her disgust was directed at herself, for being willing to let the facts slide in favor of a bath and clean clothes.

The dark haired elf-girl, Rena, was her name, pointed at her and started saying something to Zevran. Orla had been able to pick the name up though the rest of it had escaped her, she spoke no Tevene and only some Orlesian. _I’ll have to change that_ , she decided as the girl finished.

“What did she say?” Orla asked Zevran.

“She wants to know why you are pretending to care, _bella_ ,” Zevran said.

“Pretending?!” Orla returned, “I’m not pretending to do anything! I _do_ care.”

“I know that, _bella_ , but look at them and consider their life and world and you can understand why she thinks this is a trick of some sort,” Zevran pointed out. Orla looked at the elves again, taking in details she hadn’t before. Puffy eyes, dark circles, torn skin on the hands and suspicion rolling off the dark haired girl in waves so thick Orla could almost see them.

Orla swallowed and then looked back at Zevran, “Ask if whoever is hurt needs a healer,” she said.

“It would not make him worse, that’s for certain,” Zevran said darkly.

“Ask. Please. I’m not going if they don’t trust me,” Orla said. She wasn’t going to abuse her position, even to help someone. The Alienage in Denerim had taught her that. You had to prove yourself before you had any right to help, after all they had more than enough reasons to not trust humans.

Zevran nodded and turned back, speaking to Rena. The dark haired girl shook her head vehemently and started shouting and pointing at her in a way that needed no translation. Gently she handed Edrea off to Zevran, “Wait a moment, let me get you something for him,” Orla said quickly. Her first stop was the overly large bed. With two fingers she burned out a circle of fabric and then took that over to the dressing table, pulling the elfroot out of the vase and grounding it up on the clean fabric. She picked a few other flowers from around the room to finish out the mixture and then tied off the circle of fabric with a piece of leather that had been binding the bouquets together. She brought it over to Zevran and pressed it in his hand.

“Have him drink this in hot water. It will help,” Orla said, “And take Dane with you,” the mabari’s ears perked up and Orla smiled over at the dog, “You go with Zevran, boy. Sten will watch me. I want you to keep whoever is hurt safe and give them a LOT of dog kisses, okay?” she said, patting him on the head. Dane woofed once in reply and pushed open the cabin door, looking back and waiting for the others to follow him.

“Zevran,” Orla called out, and he stopped in the door, looking over his shoulder, “Take care of them.” _Since I can’t. Not yet, anyway._

“Do not worry, _bella_ , I will see to it,” he said, and then all three were gone, the door closing behind them. For a moment, Orla simply stood there before dropping to her knees, shaking.

“It is as I said, _kadan_ , they are a corrupt people,” Sten said, staying by the door. Physical comfort was not something he did, but the intent was there in his voice, “What has happened to these elves is not your fault.”

“Yes, but… why me?” Orla asked, tears blurring her vision, “In a world full of mages, why me?”

“Power always attracts those who wish to abuse it,” Sten said, “We will have to bide our time but this Magister shall fall.”

“And until then, what do we do?” Orla asked, seeking advice, comfort, anything to help her deal with what had happened, and feeling guilty for feeling like this in the first place. She wasn’t the one being hurt, being abused.

“That is your choice, _kadan_. I will follow your lead. Though the path may wind you have proven you know how to walk it,” Sten said, looking towards the door that stood between them and a ship full of secrets and danger and pain.

“I’ll play along, for now,” Orla said, clenching her fists, “But as soon as we can, I swear on Andraste’s pyre I will rip his throat out _myself_.”

“I look forward to that moment,” Sten said evenly, “May it come soon.”

* * *

Sophina’s eyes opened slowly. She felt like she had spent the entire evening deeper in her cups than an Rivaini shipwreck was in under the sea. With a groan she sat up, pushing some stray red curls out of her face. It took a moment to get her bearings. She wasn’t in one of the large cabins, but instead one of the group ones shared with the crew. Having known that being replaced was coming made it easier to deal with. She did, however, almost hit her head on the top of the bunk. Reaching up to get her bearings she was greeted by the course feel of wooden planks with straw sticking between them.

It was childhood all over again.

Except this time she didn’t have to wake up and help gut and slice a pig. She had been promoted to elves, but only on demand.

The few sailors playing cards in the corner only gave her a cursory glance, more concerned with their game of Wicked Grace than with her. She didn’t mind. Sophina hadn’t gone out of her way to inspire fear in her master’s servants. She didn’t see the point of it. Someone had to work with these people to keep things running smoothly. Running this household wasn’t a task that could be done if everyone was making jokes behind her back about sudden, assisted death.

Sophina wasn’t her master, she couldn’t be blind to these things as he was. Though she did wish her apprenticeship didn’t involve getting caught up in these plans. At least a night in a tavern would have been a good reason to wake up feeling hung over below deck of a ship. Rubbing her head, she looked over at the sailors again, giving her vision a moment to clear.

“Oy,” Sophina said, reverting to a lower class accent, “How long have I been out?”

The sailors didn’t look over but one did answer, “Not even a day. So, been put down here with us have ya?” one of them said, and she could hear the smirk on the face. It wasn’t an expression he wore long. It only took nails into her palm to bring forth the blood and his head slammed down on the table, scattering the pile of gambling gold as his two friends reflexively jumped back.

“I may be forced in here wit’ ya,” Sophina said, standing up, “But don’t ya ever mistake me for bein’ at yer level,” she said, letting the spell go. The sailor sat up, his face bloody from the force that it had hit the table with. The look back at her was the proper mix of fear and awe as far as she was concerned. It would hopefully be enough to make sure they were smart enough to leave well enough alone.

After all, she wasn’t a fan of cleaning up corpses.

Despite the constant shifting in the floor, Sophina stood and found her footing and started towards the open cabin door frame. Of course there wasn’t a real door. That was reserved for the _important_ cabins for _important_ people. She couldn’t help but to glare at the door to her cabin, closed and housing the Ferelden woman. She shuddered, recalling the sound of the music in the other woman’s mind and how hard it had been to hold in place.

If the woman had been telling the truth about the music Sophina couldn’t understand how someone could live with that discordant melody playing over and over. It was like a chamber group at a bad party where the musicians had been drinking since the start and weren’t quite playing the same song. And yet, it eerily fit together in a strange rising crescendo that had left her shaking. Sadly it wasn’t the last time she’d likely be called to put herself on the line like that for her teacher.

“You,” Sophina’s tone changed from lower class to formal as she spotted three elves walking towards the slave’s quarters with the Ferelden’s _dog_ of all things. The three stopped and looked back at her, “I will take a bath,” she said, trying to keep tiredness and her pounding head from making the words slur, “now.”

The three elves looked at each other and the dark skinned girl, one of the kitchen girls if she recalled correctly, stepped forward. “Of course, Mistress,” she said, with a nod of her head. She was about to point out that a scullery girl shouldn’t be doing it when she caught the expression on their faces. Sophina bit back a sigh. Were the coffers going to be hit with another blood price? Life wasn’t as cheap as Magister Barbatus seemed to treat it. The only question was whether it was a boy or a girl this time and how much damage had been done. Sooner or later gold was not going to be enough to keep the knife ears silent and in line.

She followed the scullery maid to the galley. The couple of elves still working there didn’t have to ask what was going on and a barrel with lukewarm water was prepared. It was easy enough to make it hot on her own and when the last of the robes were stripped off and she stepped into the tub the water was just short of boiling. The heat and the steam rolling off of her skin did a lot to ease the tension she had woken up with. Sophina took a moment to enjoy the feeling of being washed by another as her tight auburn curls blocked her vision. If she was Magister Atus she’d command the girl into the tub. However she didn’t see the regular staff for such things. There were plenty of places in Minrathous that she could scratch that itch with a partner or two more to her liking.

It didn’t take long to actually feel clean and somewhat human again.

Sophina stepped out of the water, drying herself off and wrapping herself in the robe provided. It might not have been in her cabin, but being clean and clothed revitalized. And it was a good thing too, given that she was going to be the one cleaning up Magister Atus’ mess. The first part of it was easy enough. She pulled her purse from the pile of dirty robes on the floor and held out a gold coin for the scullery girl. The elf didn’t meet her eyes, but Sophina could feel her discomfort. 

“Are they dead?” Sophina asked simply. The elf girl muttered something in return, “Speak up,” Sophina returned stiffly. She did not have time for this.

“No, mistress,” the girl said a bit louder, her voice shaking.

“Then this will cover any damage,” Sophina said firmly and waited for the girl to take the coin. The scullery maid hesitated for a long a moment, then slowly took the gold piece while never meeting Sophina’s gaze. In the flickering light of the galley she could see the flash of tears on the girl’s cheeks. Sophina had more than her fill of crying slaves on this voyage and they were only just starting on their way back home.

“Th…thank you, Mistress,” the girl said, clutching the gold piece and bowing low.

“This will be the last I hear of it, understand?” Sophina said, turning away, purse in hand. The clothes would be laundered and she would have to spend her evening both studying and keeping sailors at bay. The sooner they returned home the better off she would be. At least then she could start to modify her plans since the Grey Lady’s presence would change things. She now had an ally or an obstacle. Either way it would be dealt with and things would move forward, as they always did.

And they would move forward with or without Orla Amell. Sophina would see to that.


End file.
